Tomorrow Will Be Better
by palomino333
Summary: Written for a good friend of mine, a companion piece to War Wounds. "It is heresy. I am creating gods. You are strong enough for me to create one, an Übermensch, if you will." Fox-verse.


This took a long time to prepare and write. Not only was this requested by a good friend, but once again, this feels like one of the last fanfics I will write for this fandom. I'm not as much into Team Fortress 2 as I was a few years ago, and as such, I treat every fanfic I write as if I am going to be leaving the fandom. Basically, I always bring the best that I can.

My headcanon diverts from Valve's canon, especially those in the comics, as my previous fanfics, starting with Mother Fox, precedes the current comics. For Medic's point-of-view, see War Wounds. The first book Heavy is reading is Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgenev. Heavy was a difficult character for me to pin down, though I figured that focusing upon his growing friendship with the Medic would be a good angle to take. As for Azarova's fate, I wasn't aiming for shock value, rather it was to show the fact that both the SS and the regular German army, actively or passively, were involved in the attempted commitment of genocide. I am not, however, justifying the atrocities committed by the Soviet Union at the end of the war, and I will proceed no further into that discussion. The instances where Heavy speaks clear sentences are when he is talking in Russian. As a side note, while I admit that Natascha's conversation with him was a little forward-sounding, especially considering her situation, it was more driven by the fact that she had no family left, and was utterly alone.

* * *

The problem with monsters was they were difficult to hunt. A deer? A bird? Either example was simple game, in that they were easy to track down. Admittedly, they put up a fight, but that was understandable; they didn't want to die. The stag fought back with hoof and horn, and the bird flapped its wings and bit. Of course, those were last resorts, and therefore, arguably more devastating due to their lack of predictability.

The monster, however, was another matter. He was different; he didn't use claw and fang as a last resort, rather he was more strategic with them, luring prey into his clutches before it was too late. He would stop himself from being led to that last resort, because he knew that it would be an utter weakness. His strength was in his tactics.

See, the thing about the hero, and the monster slayer, for that matter, is that he wasn't really pure inside. He might have once been, but to know the enemy, he had to somehow become him for a better window into his mind. He had to know where he lived, and he had to know what he wanted, if only just to start. That part was easy enough, albeit daunting, for it meant to encroach upon his territory. Oh, without getting caught? Never happened that way. When the hunter began his hunt, the monster knew he was there.

The problem was, however, that quite a few hunters lost their nerve when it came to the intermittent phase: the hunter had to continue to study the creature, and learn his movements, as well as his mind. He had to return, despite knowing the risks. He had to also be careful, that he did not fall too far into the abyss as he searched for answers. Unfortunately, some hunters were scared off too early, and they were only lucky enough to escape with their lives because the monster had considered them unworthy of his time. Others dunked their heads too far into the darkness, and surfaced as something darker, and worse. The monster became an infectious disease, corroding the victorious hunter from the inside even as he triumphantly held up the decapitated creature's head.

As it turned out, the RED Heavy found, much to his satisfaction, he was not the only one of these veteran hunters on his team. The RED Sniper was the most obvious example, in that he took more of a scientific approach, carefully watching each mark from afar. The RED Spy was much sleeker, with a touch of finesse, drifting away into the darkness.

The less obvious examples, however, proved to be the more interesting. The RED Demoman was a much wilder and upfront version, his pure rage boiling over as he took off after the BLU Soldier. The RED Soldier was completely off his rocker, but much like his BLU counterpart, he had hunted opposing forces, though without the practiced finesse of others. He was too sloppy.

The Engineer didn't quite qualify, as he was more defensive, and the Pyro was just utterly unpredictable. That left the Medic, and honestly, that was a hunter he did consider a fellow upon their first meeting. The man clearly had a screw loose, which wasn't much of a problem to the Heavy; a good hunter had at least one loose in order to allow for him to do so well, when a sane man would have turned and run. No, the problem was the past, memories, in fact.

He'd known that the Medic was German. He read it on his team bio that he had been given, and couldn't help but feel a little disgust at the fact. RED was actually considering allowing a pig like that to take care of them, but he supposed that was his own prejudices acting up, weren't they? Country lines weren't supposed to matter in the field of corporate greed. He figured that the fallen commissars were probably spinning in their graves over this, if they even had the mental competency do so at all past reciting Party lines.

Ragtag bunches weren't a new thing to him, and it was nice that they were able to form a cohesive whole out of the slush so they wouldn't get killed. Perhaps that wasn't exactly what would be called "nice," but it was still something worth fighting for, even if, frustratingly, he wasn't able to exactly figure out what exactly they were saying the entire time, English not being his first language.

He knew the Scout thought he was an idiot all too well, through his incessant vocalizations of what he had deemed to be a fact. Let him. The true idiot was always shown when Scout was blown to pieces constantly, and taking out his frustration on respawn. The problem was, though, that while the team was linked with the English language, it was still weak. Pyro, courtesy of not taking off his mask, was nigh impossible to verbally figure out through his muffled speech. The differing dialects between each team member that bled into their speech made communication difficult, to say nothing of the foreign languages that further provided each man who was lucky enough to have one his own private world.

Heavy admitted, to himself, at least, that he found reassurance in that. There was a cave in which he could dwell, and effectively isolate himself from others, that no one else could understand, a trove of Russian history, literature, and thought.

Then came the day that Spy broke into it. He should have known better. The man was trained for intelligence purposes; he would know at least acceptable Russian for his missions. Heavy had just willfully blinded himself to it. It was innocent enough; he had left a Turgenev lying upon the coffee table of the rec room. Personally, he preferred less idealistic authors, the war having beaten that out of him, but it still provide a nice window into what was once, or what could have been. He'd managed to find a copy in Cyrillic script, which was a nice added bonus for its authenticity.

Returning with a sandwich, he found Spy leaning against the wall with one foot propped back against it, and smoke coiling from a cigarette held to his side in a pose that conveyed moodiness. Heavy scoffed at the romanticized notion of spies having brooding or glamorous lives, especially after Leningrad. Those that were caught were often executed on the spot back in those days, and that was if they were lucky. They probably had copious amounts of red in their ledger to survive.

Spy glanced up, and nodded to him. Heavy held up his hand to him in greeting, and sat down, placing his plate beside the book. He leaned back in relaxation, despite his rather uneasy feeling about the Spy, especially given the man's distance from him, and skill set. Spy was strangely warm around the Scout, in a mentor-to-student manner that Heavy found endearing from afar, but among the other crusty veterans, the distance remained. They were reaching their sell-by dates soon, and it was a matter of time. Heavy remembered hearing that Spy was the closest, and perhaps his detachment was also a result of his being the first to leave. Why bother to make friends, when he would just as soon say good-bye? He didn't recall a moment when Spy had been seen without his mask, and that was perhaps for the better.

As Heavy paged through the novel quietly, Spy's inquiry drifted over to him. "Remind me, which statue of Anna Odintzov's was it that was broken?"

"Will check, one moment," Heavy muttered in response, thumbing to the correct page, "Ah. As thought, was Silence. It had to be taken from garden because of that."

Spy nodded his head. "I thought so, but wasn't sure." He gave a chuckle. "One less thing to worry on, I suppose. It was bothering me all day."

It wasn't until Heavy had finished his sandwich and returned the book to the nightstand beside his bed that he realized Spy shouldn't have been able to even read the title.

It didn't bother him very much that Spy never talked to him in Russian. There was solace to be had in silence, and perhaps that was for the better. While the BLU team, most likely due to their younger age, tended to be closer whether like family, friends, or, perhaps something even the sensibilities of the time would despise, the RED team was more cool with relations. That wasn't to say they were completely anti-social; the RED Sniper and RED Engineer certainly enjoyed one another's company, the hunter with his camper van and the cowboy riding his steel horse. Still, it was enough that the RED Scout practically functioned as a parody of himself about the base, tossing about mostly barbed or offensive comments to grasp attention before he was brought back into line.

He reminded Heavy all too well of the younger men in his unit, and that, in itself, was saddening. Heavy himself had once been a young man, known as Matvei Kudrin, but the youngness had been quick to fade when others like him were gunned down, or impaled in close quarters combat. The light had drained out of his eyes as he began to dwindle in size in the city of the dead. Of course, Kudrin always had his height, but his sheer bulk was losing its amount, and that disturbed him more than much else as he became scrawnier.

"They call you a giant, you know. They fear you over there," one of his comrades, a man named Volkov, murmured to him inside of a destroyed building.

Kudrin snorted as he cleaned his gun. "I am a skeletal giant, then. Striking fear in the enemy does nothing to fill our bellies, or save others."

"Perhaps they will start to fall back. They cannot kill you," Volkov observed.

Kudrin raised a hand to tick off his reasons for refusal on his fingers. "The Nazis have enough to fear without me. They fear the winter, starvation, the rats, our brothers in arms, and above all else, failure. I do not make that much of a difference being here, do I?"

"I'm still sitting beside you," Volkov replied gently, "Had it not been for your intervention, that would not have been a possibility."

Kudrin smiled, turning over his arm, though it was sheathed by a sleeve, upon which a scar was burned heavily into it. "Anything for a friend. I would have done it again."

After a few more moments of comfortable silence, Volkov yawned, and crawled back to curl up with other men of their group, who were sleeping. "Keep the fire down."

Kudrin held up two fingers in an "ok" sign, and wondered, not for the first time, if this would be their last fire to burn.

He didn't have to like the Medic, and he was heavily against doing so, yet he had to be comfortable with him at his back. The strategy was simple; the Heavy functioned as a practical walking tank, in that he was nigh unstoppable with a large weapon to match. The problem lay in the fact that he was needed, more often than not, as a perpetual battering ram against the opposition, which put him in the way of the opposition. Funny how dying had been relegated to a cheap trick, the reset button hit in a brilliant flash of light. He didn't even feel anything.

Yet, it didn't ease the apprehension he felt when he went into battle. Perhaps he would be shot, and there wouldn't be that flash of light again. He remembered the intel that Scout had brought to the base, and how it had detailed an old file of the previous BLU Pyro preceding the much younger Morgan Yomura had met his end that way. He was shot in the head, and never woke up again. It wasn't a rare occurrence, either. The previous RED Engineer before Nash LeFaye had met his end due to a backstab from the BLU Spy. It was chilling, and tragic in its way, but it wasn't necessarily rare. Another file indicated that the preceding BLU Scout had the most rotten sense of luck, and was hit by the train at Well. His gibbed remains were all that were left.

The RED Soldier patted the RED Scout's shoulder in a rare display of affection as the file was read. Shrugging it off, Scout muttered, "You ain't my ma." Soldier immediately returned to form by screaming in Scout's face that if he were his mother, he would've had the decency to swallow.

The RED Sniper was blasé about the whole affair, and understandably so. "He signed up for it, and knew it was going to happen," he commented as he cleaned his rifle and looked through the scope, "Guys died back in the war day by day. They still do."

Death had a sick sense of humor, it seemed. Those that died permanently went quickly, while those who were in pain from multiple bullet wounds, fire, and stab wounds respawned to endure the ordeal all over again. Yet, at the same time, the pain provided its own sense of pleasure, a shot of adrenaline that reminded the Heavy that he was alive. It was something that he would be unable to feel doing menial labor back home, and he freely admitted to himself that it wasn't just the money he sent back to his family that kept him at 2Fort.

There really wasn't much to say against the RED Medic's prowess. He knew what he was doing, and could attend to practically any injury. Not to mention the fact that he wasn't a stranger to repetition or drudgery, boasting a long history of field work as a surgeon in his own private practice, as well as a long period of time in a slow-moving line battle. The explained the meticulousness of his cleaning his instruments, despite the fact that his lab appeared disorganized, and the fact that he allowed his birds to roost in the area. If anything, he was a man of contradictions.

Heavy was decidedly against turning his back on him, but unfortunately, that also meant he couldn't be healed otherwise. Then again, he could be healed while facing the Medic, but that would be too difficult. Then again, all things considering, he knew he wasn't exactly trusted by him, either. He knew that, were it not for the necessity of himself as a shield, Medic wouldn't have wanted anything to do with him. That wasn't anything new, anyway, considering the fact that the team was a rather motley bunch to begin with.

It had borne a difference between his previous group in the war, in that he had trained with them. When it came to the mercenaries, a few men were already established there, those being Demoman, Sniper, Spy, and Medic. Engineer, Soldier, Pyro, and eventually Scout joined after the previous positions were vacated through death, dismissal, quitting, or retirement. He figured as much; it was a job, not a necessity that the Patriotic War had warranted.

Medic's ice blue eyes shined out at him from behind his glasses as he shook Heavy's hand. "Dr. Siegfried Dunn, pleasure to meet you."

"Pleasure is mine," Heavy replied with an acceptable warmth, though it didn't go far beyond it.

Medic dropped his hand with a nod, and little else was said between them.

There were the commands they passed between them, but there was little else. Medic avoided him unless absolutely necessary, and Heavy cared little to bother to search for him. As a result, however, the team began to suffer for it. The BLU team wasn't as experienced as the RED, by far, but the problem lay in the fact that the RED Medic was still left open for an attack.

If Heavy could give him one thing, however, it was that his team's Medic didn't take death lying down. Brandishing his bonesaw, his maniacal grin reflected back in its surface, he sliced off limbs, cackling as blood rained down on his coat. Syringes flew like bullets across the battlefield, and embedded like barbs into the opposition. Covered in sweat, and his lab coat torn, Medic breathed heavily as he stumbled off the battlefield in exhaustion, his eyes searching.

It wasn't as if Medic sought him out, either. Heavy knew that the team found his relationship with Sasha to be a little odd, but then again, he wasn't angry with them over it. They just didn't understand his relationship with his gun. She protected him on the field, and protected the whole team, in fact. He kept her clean, and she fired well. She was a good gun, strong and well-made. He was more than happy to have her.

Heavy cleaned out his gun with a rag, and thought of the originator of her name.

She was a medic within Leningrad as well, her unit one of many. Starved as he, she sprinted into the field of combat like the others to pull aside those who were wounded into safer zones. Standing between her and the enemy like a wall in order for her to successfully stop the bleeding of her patient, Kudrin bought her time with answering gunfire, and a grunt or groan of pain here and there.

"It was nothing," he replied as she bandaged the wound in his shoulder.

Her patient slumped tiredly up against the wall beside them.

Twisting about, she peered out through the hole in the wall toward the bleakness outside, her ragged brown braid thrown over her shoulder. She paused for a moment, as if in thought. Whatever went through her mind, she chose not to reveal it as she turned back to him, folding her arms with a slight smile. "I have at last met this giant of Leningrad," she commented, her voice breathy from the cold air, "I'm glad to say he's a decent man."

"He has a name," he replied with a wave of the hand, "Kudrin, call me Kudrin."

"Sasha will suit me fine," she answered, ducking her head. The shadows cast heavily over the lines on her face, making her appear much older as she shivered against the side wall.

Kudrin beckoned to her. "Come close, I will keep you warm."

Sasha shook her head. "I need to leave soon, and rejoin my unit."

"I need to do so, as well," Kudrin replied, reaching over to more gently resettle the blanket over the wounded man, "But there is no need for you to leave now. You are tired, and it is dangerous." An explosion in the distance punctuated his statement.

Sasha sighed. "And I cannot leave my patient, either." She frowned deeply, and shook her head. "Truth be told, I fear that if I remain too long, I will not be able to get up. I have been on my feet quite often, as of late." Despite her wording, however, she slowly slunk toward him, her arms hanging at her sides. With a heavy sigh, she turned about so that her back faced his arm, and fell against him.

"Do you have enough to get by?" He inquired.

"I don't want to burden you," she replied, skirting the question, "If I didn't bring enough to feed myself, then that was my own fault."

"Nonsense. We are in this together, and we need our medics especially," he pointed out firmly.

"I have enough, you needn't worry," Sasha replied with a slight yawn.

Companionably, he nudged her back with the side of his arm. "Get some sleep, Sasha. You'll need it. I can keep watch."

She sighed heavily, and rested her head back against his arm as he stared out the nightmarish atmosphere before them. Whatever the past had brought, had no meaning. Whatever the future would bring was equally meaningless when one barely scraped by in the city of the dead.

Sasha did stir awake a few times to check on her comrades, but otherwise slept lightly. It was foolish, Kudrin knew, to place so much stock into protecting these two people, as so many died with each passing day, but if he could successfully say, "No, not them today," then that was a victory in itself.

Sasha squirmed slowly awake against him, rubbing blearily at her eyes after managing about three hours of sleep. "That is enough. I need to leave." She pushed herself slowly to a crouch.

"You're sure you don't need to do anything else? Eat, maybe?" Kudrin offered.

Sasha shook her head slowly. "No, I've wasted too much time." Turning, she revealed to him a pair of deep set green eyes, staring out from her as if from the hollows of a skull. "We each have so much to do, but time is slipping further from us."

"Does it scare you?" Kudrin inquired, "Be honest with me, if you could at least give me that."

She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly. He wondered if the glistening he saw in the corners of her eyes was a trick of the light, and found that to be a comfort, in its way. If the medics could still cry, then all was not lost. If they were truly murdered within, all pretenses of warmth stripped away, then he would worry not only for their sake, but for his own. "I'm terrified," she admitted, "but I have to keep going. With our backs against the walls like this, the remaining option is extinction, and that is unacceptable."

"You would prevent that extinction, even if meant your own," Kudrin commented.

She lowered her head in a half-bow, her braid falling over her shoulder. "It is my duty as a medic and as a soldier. If I had any intensions of leaving this city alive, then I have discarded them, although," her voice became thick with emotion as she added, "it doesn't make living with it any easier."

"Then come to me," Kudrin held out a hand, "Let me at least shake the hand of the woman of the dead."

Sasha nodded her head, and stepped back toward him. Kudrin pressed her hand, so much smaller than his, in his glove. "Then, I have held the hand of the giant of Leningrad," she murmured, grasping it tight to squeeze, "Live for us all, Kudrin, and tell our tale."

Around a month later, he found Sasha again. He didn't recognize her at first, her long hair about her shoulders, and one of her green eyes being reduced to a red, hollow, dripping mess. Her mutilated body was naked where it hung by a utility rope from the side of a building, with blood dripping from her much-abused crotch region to the ground below. Holding up her dogtags between his gloved fingers, Kudrin found her true name, Alexandra Azarova. Kudrin cut her down with his combat knife, and wrapped her in a blanket to place in a mass grave with three other females that were recovered in a similar fashion. One was similarly identified by a tag, but the other two were a mystery, having no tags. Civilian or soldier, who was to say.

Perhaps he ate a little too much at 2Fort, but considering the fact that he had once gone without adequate food for such a long time, it was understandable.

Not surprisingly, some of his first informal interactions with Medic revolved around the kitchen area. Medic, surprisingly, was a tea drinker. Heavy had been expecting coffee from him, considering how the man had to be wired in order to keep going with those schematics of his, and whatever insidious experiments he was concocting in the infirmary that caused a cackle to emerge every once and a while.

The thing was, it would actually have been scary if Medic didn't do it as often as he did. At this point, it was so often that it was to be expected as much as it was for Medic to clean his glasses off on his coat sleeve, or heal his teammates with the MediGun. It was simply a part of who he was. Heavy was the past of point of caring whether or not it was a bad thing that he was considering insanity in a teammate as normal.

Medic would dunk his teabag into his hot water-filled cup, with little acknowledgment of the Heavy's presence save for a raise of his head, or a simple nod. Heavy would give a wave of the hand from where he sat at the table. Heavy would be up early in the morning to clean off Sasha, and teammates would come and go. Personally, it shocked him that the Medic emerged from his laboratory for as long as he did. He looked almost serene in a way, with how he stirred his tea, a pet dove upon his shoulder.

The doves, Heavy admitted, were nice, if not a little disturbing in the fact that they tended, more often than not, to be covered in blood. They were well-trained, though, in the fact that they didn't leave feces within the inhabited areas of the base. RED Sniper found a source of entertainment from watching them poop on the unsuspecting BLU team through his scope.

The dove Socrates, perched upon Medic's shoulder, flapped over to Heavy's place at the table, and landed before him, cocking his head to the side. Heavy, his toast a few inches from his open mouth, paused to look down at him.

"Socrates!" Medic exclaimed in annoyance, "Don't disturb him!"

Heavy smiled, and held out his toast invitingly to him. After pausing to tilt his head once more, Socrates started forward, and nipped on it. Medic let out a sigh, and Heavy smiled reassuringly. "Is okay, I like birds."

Medic slowly returned the smile as Socrates began to nibble.

Breakfast became a lighter affair between them, allowing for the two to bond over Medic's doves. Heavy was generally curious about the doves, and found, to his surprise, that Medic's pets were strangely typical in their behavior outside of the OR, in that they were close to their master, ate food typical of a dove's diet, and drank water. They also slept at typical times, building nests around the outside of the base, in the OR, or in Medic's personal quarters. They were an assembled flock, but they had split off into smaller family and companion units. One of Medic's female doves, Calpurnia, had mated with Virgil, and the two had built a nest in a secluded corner on the base's exterior. The infirmary, he explained, was too filled with the smells of antiseptic for their young to be safe, and his room was simply out of the question, as there was too much movement in it.

Heavy found that endearing, how the doctor went in-depth about each of his birds, where they liked to nest, the functions of their relationships, their preferences to eat, and their differing temperaments. In a way, it served as a reflection of Medic's meticulous persona, in which he carefully categorized each one. Yet, there was still affection to it, as evidenced by him sweeping out of a room, the tail of his lab coat flying, with Archimedes perched upon his shoulder.

Still, Heavy couldn't help but feel distance from the Medic, and it was actually buffered as a result of the subject that brought them a little closer together. Simply put, if Medic kept close tabs on his birds, then there was little doubting that he would have kept such detailed dossiers of his teammates. As such, he couldn't help but feel as if he was being watched, despite Medic's rather benign manner over breakfast.

Didn't his other teammates figure as much? He wondered why none of them seemed to care about it. Then again, with as much time as there was being eaten up by the day to day battles, there wasn't much left to think on it. The Medic was the team's doctor, after all, so that was part of the job description. Medics in the Soviet army had to keep tabs on their compatriots, as well, but there was the rub: they were Soviets while Medic was German.

Cleaning his gun at night, Heavy knew that he couldn't let that factor go, even after so many years had passed by. It wasn't as if Medic had attempted to build bridges with him, either, considering that their first actual conversation had been the result of his pet taking an interest in the Heavy. All things considering, an invisible barrier remained up between them.

But he couldn't bring himself to trust the Medic, not yet, anyway. Heavy supposed that was progress, considering he had once had no intention of even connecting with him. Funny, he figured, that he had named his gun after a medic, yet he did not even trust his own living medic. The thing about naming the gun Sasha was that it wasn't in memorial for just her, rather it was a representation of all of the medics he had served with. Perhaps it would have been more fitting, if he had named it after a medic in his unit, but the fact remained that he had seen her, lost, for that one stretch of time. By naming his gun after her, he could outwit the Nazis by keeping her by his side.

So he could outwit ghosts, as if that was some great accomplishment. He knew that if they didn't improve upon their performance, the corporate suits wouldn't be happy with them.

The team was starting to notice, though in their own ways. Some things just didn't need to be said, especially when they were kept in such close proximity with each other. Scout was the most unnerved out of them, the fact being that he had a deal in his contract to jumpstart himself to his dreams. Rigging up the sentry, he had it fire baseballs at him that he hit hard with his bat Engineer allowed him to do it, as it kept him filling his time, and also gave him more peace to work on his machines, most of which had to be discarded due to coming out half-formed.

Demoman was hitting the booze more often than usual, and managed to take out all of the shelves in the kitchen pantry by falling down.

It wasn't helping that Pyro was getting antsy, and setting just about anything in reach on fire. Thankfully, Spy had the foresight to direct Pyro toward the BLU base, and tell him to have at it. Soldier jumped in as a playmate, and it was an entertaining spectacle for a few hours.

The turning point in this wasn't exact; there was no designated time in which Heavy magically chose to swing Sasha about, and protect the Medic, rather, it was simply driven by necessity. Medic was being choked off by the opposing team's sentry, which the Spy was currently attempting to dismantle. Heavy found Medic, breathing hard and a sporting few bullet holes through his lab coat. One was still smoking, and his glasses were knocked slightly askew as he glanced around the corner, only to cringe back when the sentry clicked, and sprayed bullets at him again. Yet, his leg remained stepped adamantly forward as the cries of his teammates for him, accompanied by exclamations of pain, sounded in the distance among the pandemonium.

As such, Medic didn't detect his presence, and for a moment, Heavy saw in him Yesipov, the medic from his unit, who had run into the thick of things to lessen the pain of those who were dying, or, more simply, help them die faster. Medic, not being aware of his presence, jerked in surprise as Heavy grabbed his arm to yank him backward. He kicked and tugged at him for a few moments, his eyes wild and unseeing in his surprise. Had it been another man who had grabbed him, Medic would have been lost to the gunfire, having effectively twisted himself into it, but Heavy held him resolute.

"What?!" Medic snapped.

Heavy nodded toward the field beyond the wall. "Get behind me."

He panted for a few moments, though whether he was considering it, or simply trying to process his surroundings, Heavy couldn't tell. Nonetheless, he nodded.

Heavy yanked Medic behind him, and charged into the fold as the MediGun whirred. The sentry clicked loudly as it locked onto its target, and Heavy laughed as the adrenaline overtook him. It was cut off in a strangled gasp as the sentry's bullets ripped into his body, and his vision swam. The MediGun's healing rays, however, shoved off the dark spots from his vision. His heart pounded as he swung into position, with Sasha whirring as he fired at the sentry, which sparked and effectively began to shut down. The Engineer behind it attempted to whack the sapper off, only to fall over from a backstab by the de-cloaking Spy behind him. Heavy laughed in triumph as the sentry exploded.

The smile Medic gave him after the battle, despite being covered in dust and blood, and one lens of his glasses cracked, was something rather unique in itself. It was closeness, in its way, though not one that he had harbored with his birds. It demonstrated a sense of tiredness, but also of a sort of strength, as if he wanted to run back out there, and do it all again. It fell just as soon, however, as he turned to walk away, and hold out his arm out for Archimedes to descend from the top of his locker.

Not every battle in which they paired together was perfect, however. Heavy, naturally, couldn't always be around for Medic to trail behind, but he wasn't expecting Medic to simply lose his cool without him. Indeed, his expectations were met, and Medic healed his other teammates, rather than cowering behind him, though it still did result in Medic being blown to pieces more often than not on such occasions. Heavy noted that he couldn't help but feel a slight twinge at the sight of his teammate being gibbed, while on previous occasions, he had only felt frustration.

So he was going soft. The doctor, thankfully, didn't argue with him on the topic of where to go on many occasions, as he did protect him. The RED Soldier was also a good accomplice for the Medic to follow, but he was too erratic, often rocket jumping out of Medic's range to go after a target that had sprung up, leaving him to fend for himself. The RED Pyro was also a strong choice, but as to whether he actually had what would be called an attack pattern was left to be seen.

But there were was that skirmish at Sawmill, when Heavy had charged forward to capture the control point, and thought he had been quick enough. He stepped on it triumphantly, with the Announcer declaring that the point was being captured. As he turned, however, the healing rays of the MediGun were promptly cut off with a screech of pain and a splattering of scarlet.

Heavy snorted at him upon seeing him again. "Will you follow blind this time, Medic?"

Tugging his bonesaw out, Medic turned it sideways, the rain dripping from its surface as he wiped his face with his free arm. "Perhaps it would be for the better, then, if you fell. I could actually possess some notion of autonomy."

Holding his arm out as lightning struck in the background, Heavy indicated that he wasn't inclined to stop him. "If want to get shot, be my guest. Not my prisoner."

Medic hesitated before slowly lowering the bonesaw.

Heavy turned away from him, picking his gun back up. "Get behind me doctor, but keep up."

"Autonomy," Heavy shook his head at the notion, slamming his locker door shut, "What is this, autonomy?"

Medic rolled his eyes at him, the room having deserted from their teammates moving on. "Do you need that word defined for you, as well?"

Heavy waved a hand at Medic's blatant patronizing attitude, disallowing him the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him. "Where you get such ideas? We are team. Autonomy not important. Should know that most as medic."

"Oh, good, you know what it means," Medic replied with a sigh of relief, sitting down upon the bench and adjusting his glasses, "Is that your proletariat rhetoric talking?"

"Leave that war behind, Medic. Is not same," Heavy replied, his tone taking on a slight edge, folding his arms and holding out a hand, "We are team. We need each other to win, especially you."

"Flattering, I suppose," Medic replied with a shrug, his fingers clenching over the bench, "but clearly said without experience. If you believe that my class is so important, why is it, then, that it is despised? Who is first blamed when someone dies? Who gets screamed at for not getting there fast enough?" His voice quickened as he spoke.

Heavy moved slowly toward Medic as he went on, his hand outstretched. Medic's shoulders rose as he stared up at him, but he didn't draw back.

Heavy knelt slightly down to look at him. "You are important. Is why I have you behind me." He stood up to walk away, leaving Medic with his unhappy thoughts.

Medic didn't mention the incident again, but Heavy later found a bar of chocolate stuck like a bookmark in the pages of the copy of The Brothers Kazamarov that he had left sitting in the rec room.

"Do I know our children, truly?" Natascha wistfully asked her husband, his arms about her. She had gotten plumper in her middle age, much to Matvei's relief. She had been naught but skin and bone when he had found her as a terrified and utterly broken shell of a human being.

Yet, she had still clung to life in a vice grip, pointing off to where her sister lay in a grave dug by her own hand. With eyes that were long dry, she explained, "That's where they shot Kisa."

"Are you all right?" His inquiries were meaningless, and she told him as much, with her being beaten and half-starved to death.

In a hollow voice, she murmured, "They shot the wrong girl. I was the guerilla. She was innocent. They even knew it. I think it's because she was prettier than me." Her skirt was badly torn, and she mentioned that one of her captors, the private forced to his knees and shot in the side of the head, had wanted to take the fabric for a girlfriend back in Germany. Bruises from her ankles trailed up to her thighs.

"Free from Leningrad?" She'd asked in surprise, and extended her hand toward him similarly to the way Sasha had. Kudrin noted the rope burns on her wrist. Upon his glancing at them, she inquired, "Is Efim being seen to?"

"I could do so. Was he your leader?" Kudrin inquired.

She tilted her head at his question. "No, I only ask because they tried to lynch him. Could I have affirmation?"

Returning to her, he found her curled up by a fire with the scant other survivors, looking pitifully small. A cup of coffee was in her hand. She glanced up at him, and he nodded. She motioned for him to sit down.

"Have you a wife?" She inquired, staring into the fire.

"No," he responded simply, tossing a stick in, "Husband?"

"None of the sort," she replied, watching it crackle, "Kisa was who I had left."

"If I returned, would you consider it?" Kudrin asked after a few moments.

She sipped her coffee, and nodded, her eyes closed. "Where should I wait for you? Here?"

Kudrin reached into his supply bag, and she opened her eyes to follow his hands. "I will not harm you," he reassured, but she still didn't look away. Handing her a pencil and paper, he instructed her to write down her name for him, as well as any information that might help him find her.

After reading the completed page, he threw it into the fire. "So the Nazis will not see," he explained as it burned.

Kudrin lingered for a few moments before standing. Romance wasn't called for in this situation, and she had been battered to heavily for him to touch her intimately, not to mention the presence of the others. However, feeling her eyes upon him, he turned back.

She had set her cup on the ground, and laced her fingers together. "If they capture you, they might torture you for information about me," she explained gravely, "Do you want to run that risk?"

Sasha's hanging body formed in his mind's eye, and he replied, "Why do you think I have told you nothing about myself? You are free, Natascha."

Battle scars weren't always to be admired. Natascha, fragile in her smallness, swaddled herself away in cloth, or whatever she could grasp.

The scars on her thighs never went away, but the skin was soft she arched against him after the passing of years. He'd murmur endearments to her, as well as declarations of vengeance. Though the Nazis were long dead, he'd vow to skin them alive as his fingers traced over her nipple, and rip their spines apart as he brushed his lips against her pelvis.

Kudrin's scars were rougher and more violent, taking the form jags torn into his body. For Natascha, the stories were slowly elicited as she ran her hands over them, tales of loss, of destruction, of men's entrails spilled out onto the snow, of boys standing before firing squads, of Wehrmacht and SS swine thrown to the rats, and of Soviet soldiers being dragged through the snow, screaming, by chains wrapped about their legs.

It was little wonder that Khrushchev built his wall. Germany deserved it.

Yet before its completion, however, a small family, that among other small families, slipped away.

Heavily pregnant with the daughter who would be named Evgenia, Natascha clung fast to her husband. There really wasn't any point in arguing who was the one who should take more blame, her for being caught by the Nazis back in the war, thus forming the platform for accusations of espionage against her, or him for having a brother who deserted. It mattered little, anyway.

Kudrin felt just a minor bit of satisfaction in the fact that his younger brother met the business end of a noose for his betrayal, but it didn't bring back the men he had turned upon, leaving for what seemed like a better deal.

"Ideology," Kudrin waved his hand at the matter, "isn't the issue for me. Mother Russia was my home, and I still consider it to be that way, even if I am no longer considered a son. I wasn't angry with my brother for betraying the ideals, rather for betraying our home, and our people, if that could be understood by you."

The agent of Reliable Excavation Demolition nodded, and wrote down a few more notations upon his clipboard. Kudrin figured that his apolitical angle probably wouldn't do him any favors, even considering the genuine nature of it. Perhaps, if he had spewed some rhetoric at this agent, it would have been for the better, showing that his mind was easy to control and manipulate, a perfect machine for a powerful corporation.

Beggars couldn't be choosers. Kudrin wasn't foolish enough to move to the United States, but even while remaining on the European continent, it was difficult to find work. Knowledge of Russian literature only carried so much weight, and while he did envision himself, vaguely, as some teacher of it in the future, it wasn't quite reconcilable with his imposing form. A pair of hands performed physical labor while teachers and professors wrote about the metaphysical on blackboards. While the latter certainly held more weight to Kudrin, the former actually was something that could be paid for in bulk.

Oh wonderful, he realized, the capitalists really were starting to get to him.

It didn't help that the physical labor force was becoming more automated by the day, it seemed, with gasoline and diesel-guzzling machines doing the work that it normally would take ten men to do. Kudrin wasn't stupid; he knew that the resource of his physical prowess was running on a ticking clock. But if he could use that time to provide a better life for his children, then why not.

Much to his surprise, a week later the interview was followed up by rounds of physical demonstrations of prowess. Kudrin, despite the fact that he knew he wasn't necessarily the same as he was in the army, nonetheless showed up for the demonstrations. He figured that he wouldn't be handling a gun for this, not until he got the job, anyway, if at all, but it was worth a shot.

Needless to say, he was surprised to receive his personal file and set of forms to sign, solidifying his employment. "Work on your English," the agent commented to him, "You cannot expect your team to speak Russian for your benefit as I do."

Matvei shrugged, letting go of Natascha. "It's understandable. They've grown up in a culture different from their own. I heavily doubt that they would turn out like us."

It was in more ways than one, it seemed. Evgenia's frivolity seemed to revolve more around fantasies young men, as opposed to material goods. Her mother, however, sternly reminded her that she would not be sixteen forever, and that she must not do something she would regret. While the middle child, Antosha, found fascination with automobile repair, he also snuck cigarettes to the youngest, Konstantin, for his first puff. Needless to say, Natascha was less than pleased when she found a spent butt near Konstantin's bed post.

Natascha sighed at that, but smiled anyway. "I suppose it is better that we get to have this discussion at all, but they still remain between two worlds. Do you suppose their grandchildren would better be accepted?"

Antosha came back with a few bruises from school, and his father taught him self-defense when he had time.

"Why should I continue with this?" Antosha hissed in anger, rubbing at the side of his face, where a bruise yellowed on his cheek. "There is little of importance that I find in the books at school. I go there only to get hit."

"You wish to give up, then?" Matvei responded in annoyance, wiping at the sweat on his brow. Removing his arm guard, he dropped it to the floor. "That doesn't sound like my son speaking."

"You've yet to give me a reason, Father," Antosha challenged, holding his finger in the air as he made his point. "Why work at school, when I can more easily make a living elsewhere?"

"You do not know that," Matvei replied firmly, drawing himself up, "Can you predict the future, child?"

"Can you see the present, when it is before your face?" Antosha hissed, pointing at his cheek. "I'm not wanted there."

"Wanted is not the point," Matvei hissed, "Have you learned nothing?"

Antosha's fists clenched and unclenched as his father challenged, "Or do you just want to cry like a baby that you aren't liked? I expected better out of you."

"I wasn't crying," his son growled, his chest heaving beneath his undershirt, which was darkly soaked with his sweat. His hair, Matvei noticed, was getting long, with his dark locks falling before his blue eyes. It seemed like something else the kids were doing these days. "I was only saying that I didn't understand the meaning of charging into a fight, when it could easily be avoided."

Matvei, much to his son's surprise, laughed. "You think that avoiding one fight will end the threat of any and all beginning in the future, Antosha? Look around you," he held out his arms for emphasis, "My home country is locked in a standoff with what used to be a tentative ally. Any moment, there could be a nuclear bomb raining down upon us, yet you talk about avoiding a fight?"

Antosha bristled at his statement, and raised his fists, but Matvei motioned for him to lower them. "Enough, we need not fight longer today. It was not my point."

Antosha, however, didn't let up, and Matvei sighed. "Very well, have it your way. I will warn you, however, to not expect that you will go without seeing a war in your lifetime."

His son shook his head. "Just because you and Mother didn't, doesn't mean I have to. People can change." He pointed away from himself, and into the distance. "Do you honestly think that the world would rush into another devastating war like the one you and mother suffered through?"

Matvei nearly laughed at him again, only to realize, with disappointment, how adamant he was. So instead, he replied, "Yes, it would."

Antosha's face fell further, and he drew up his hand to rub at the healing bruise on his face again.

"We can hope," Matvei replied, kissing Natascha's forehead.

Breakfast went as usual, though with Medic preparing the coffee. It was a slight change, and Heavy joked that Medic was acting like his wife.

Medic, stirring his tea, replied, "I learned well enough from my own wife." He placed down the spoon at that to drink.

"You have wife?" Heavy asked curiously.

Medic shook his head. "I no longer do." The clinking of the cup in the saucer signaled the finality of his statement. He chuckled. "Funny, at times I do feel like the woman on this team."

Heavy snorted at that. "Too old, would not make attractive woman."

Medic grinned in appreciation.

Suffice to say, it was the last smile they would see in a while. Losses and stalemates stacked once more as they were effectively pinned by the opposing team.

"I need to speak with you," the Medic called quietly over to him on one of the slower nights, no battle planned.

"What does Doctor need?" Heavy asked, glancing up from polishing Natascha.

Medic lowered his voice. "I would need you to come to the infirmary."

Heavy raised an eyebrow at his tonal intensity, but nonetheless rose, Natascha in his arms. Medic made no comment upon Heavy's choice to remain armed; he knew that he was still be distrusted.

The MediGun stood in prominent display upon the table. Schematics and sketches of the human body, along with complicated charts, surrounded it.

"I have been working on a project," Medic explained, waving about a fat folder for emphasis, "It is one that will revolutionize this war."

"What is it?" Heavy inquired curiously.

Medic grinned, and chuckled. "It is heresy. I am creating gods. You are strong enough to create one, an Übermensch, if you will."

Heavy's breath caught at that, and Medic nodded, his grin widening. "A double heresy."

The experimental days slid slowly by, mostly due to Heavy's understandable lack of willingness to follow along with them.

"No restraints," he spoke as his first rule to Medic, who attempted to argue that they were a necessity, in case Heavy would hurt himself. "If hurt myself, is own fault. Use MediGun." He didn't budge until Medic locked away the restraining devices.

Then it was further backed up by manual needs for surgery. Medic was careful with the MediGun's settings, and became antsy at times. "We must hurry along. We wouldn't like the opposite team's Spy to garner such information, would we?" He asked pointedly.

"Rather not have your scalpel in my chest," Heavy replied evenly, "Could cause much damage."

Medic, his arms folded and leaning back against his desk, replied, "You told me I was important to the team, remember? This is important. It will help us win." He pointed at the MediGun. "I invented that to help us win. Now, an adjustment must be made."

"What happened to last Heavy? He also your lab rat?" Heavy replied, unmoved.

Medic looked offended. "He wasn't a lab rat." Tugging open a drawer, he grabbed a file, and flung it before him. "Do what you want. I'll be sitting out tomorrow's battle to perfect the design," he called over his shoulder.

"Who will be test subject?" Heavy inquired.

Medic indicated himself with his thumb before turning the corner.

The file, Heavy noted as he paged through it, was rather dense. Medic wasn't lying; the previous Heavy, a holdover from the Depression era, had retired, though his current whereabouts were unknown. A few pictures of the older Heavy and the (at the time) younger Medic standing together were included, and obviously were professional, the distance between them stiff. Heavy mumbled under his breath upon seeing that the previous employee in his position had had hair. A list of Medic's credentials was included, as well as his questionable history, as indicated by the documented revocation of his license. Following that were diagrams of the MediGun, as well as pictures of the prototype. Medic was pictured standing with it and using it, and the paperwork that gave him the patent for the weapon was also stashed.

Then came diagrams of the newer invention, along with, Heavy found, much to his disturbance, Medic's own recent X-Ray photographs, along with detailed plans to operate upon his heart, and to replace it, with, of all things, a baboon heart. What the hell was RED thinking when they hired this guy?

Yet, there was an undercurrent of self-loathing to it. True, there were graphic illustrations of how Medic could operate on his teammates to implement the baboon hearts, but they were placed away after Medic's illustration of his own body. However, it was prefaced by the fact that Medic wrote himself how the procedure would need someone durable for it, and contained the footnotes of possibly using other bulkier teammates like Soldier for it, though the Heavy was the most principle.

Heavy closed the file, and put it down before leaving. The doves cooed, and he glanced up at them for a moment. Maybe he would show, and especially if he was wounded.

As it turned he did, with a rocket lodged in his stomach. "Don't want to talk about it," he replied dismissively to Medic's inquiry as he held up the X-Ray. Explosions shook the base wall.

Medic lowered it with a grin. "All the more reason we start."

He's going to kill me, Heavy thought, much to his surprise, in a weak moment of fear, This lunatic will kill me.

It didn't help that Medic didn't use gloves while operating, and the fact that Archimedes was allowed inside Heavy's stomach. Oh well, at least Medic tried to lighten the tone with humor. Okay, the story about the skeleton was funny, but it still hurt when his rib broke. Still, Medic knew what he was doing when he shoved the new heart in.

…Right?

Whatever the case, he was on the battlefield with that strange heart within him, and Medic yelling that he had no idea whether it would actually work.

Yet when that red beam hit him, he felt unstoppable, as if the opposition could be crushed between his fingers. He was the giant of Leningrad once more, and it felt good. The barrage of BLU Soldiers were obliterated by his bullets, and the RED Heavy gave a booming laugh at his victory achieved.

"So," Medic inquired with a grin, holding up a glass, dripping over with foam, as their teammates celebrated over uncorked bottles of wine, and cans of captured BLU beer, "How did it feel, to be a god?"

Heavy chuckled at him. "Godlike." He crushed the can he held in his hand for emphasis, sending drops of the amber liquid flying.

Medic smirked at his jibe. "Another day. We must do it again."

Heavy nodded, and kept it in the back of his mind to talk to Natascha about this change in his anatomy when he next saw her. He extended his hand toward Medic, and took it with a firm shake. Perhaps they could be friends, or perhaps not. It would not be forever, but there was time enough.


End file.
